baby.
He was really screwed now.
‘This is Bethany . . .’ Amie began.
It might have been two minutes, it could have been forty-five, Andrew wasn’t sure. Either way, Amie ended up with his bank details and Andrew sauntered away wondering if he was a better
person for donating, or if he’d just been blackmailed. It definitely felt like the latter.
It had happened again! Every time.
He continued on, weaving through the back streets of Manchester’s Northern Quarter, hands in his jacket pockets, careful not to make eye contact with anyone.
When the sun was out, or even when it was a little warm, the area would be buzzing, day or night. Against the frozen backdrop of a Monday afternoon, the array of small galleries, pubs and cafes
were looking a little sorry for themselves. Instead of interested tourists and hungry shoppers dropping in to see what was going on, there were a small number of locals, collars up, heads down,
rushing for home, the office, or anywhere that was warm. Hearts appeared on an array of posters advertising Valentine’s events, with so much red, pink and purple that it looked like all
marketing budgets had been invested in a succession of cackling hen parties.
He quickened his pace as he reached Oldham Street, waiting for a bendy bus to creep around the corner, and then heading for Ancoats. Andrew checked the address he’d noted on his phone and
then crossed the main road.
The Central Manchester Food Bank was either a triumph of human generosity, or an indictment of twenty-first century society. Perhaps it was both. Andrew skirted around the back of the huge
church until he reached the sorry-looking hall at the rear. Slates were missing from the roof, with a skip overflowing with bricks and rotting wood plonked next to the front door.
He smiled at the group of three men standing outside who were sharing a flask and then went inside. The peeling paintwork, high ceilings and wide wooden floor of what looked like an ancient
school gym offered little respite against the cold and when Andrew removed his hat he instantly wished he’d left it on. A table was set up at one end of the hall with a large vat of something
steaming, next to rows of bowls and spoons; at the other, tins of various foods were stacked high, alongside a dozen loaves of bread. Packed paper bags were piled on a nearby table, each full of a
day’s-worth of food for a family.
Andrew was met by a smiling woman somewhere in her twenties, with a neat bob of hair and a thick woollen jumper. ‘Can I help?’ she asked.
‘I was wondering if you could help me find someone named Joe?’
She shook her head blankly. ‘I’m not great with names at the best of times. We’ve got the soup kitchen here but we’re also running the food bank for local families. Is he
. . . ?’
‘He’s homeless – that’s all I know.’
She shook her head. ‘If you’re Press, then I’ve got a number for someone you can call—’
‘I’m not. It’s, er, probably worse.’
Andrew showed his identification but, as he suspected, it didn’t get him far. This was a place for privacy, where people felt embarrassed to ask for help, it wasn’t for someone like
him to poke around.
Out front, the trio of men were shuffling their way in the vague direction of the city centre, still sipping from the flask. Andrew hurried after them, the cold air tightening his chest and
reminding him how unfit he was. He eventually caught up with them close to the main road. Cars, buses and lorries zipped past, creating a cacophony of noise as Andrew tried to assure them he
wasn’t a nutter – which was particularly hard to do considering he was out of breath, half-frozen, and could barely be heard. He certainly had that nutter look about him.
The trio were each wearing shabby jeans, big boots and heavy overcoats, with a lingering smell of stale alcohol that wasn’t coming from Andrew. At least he didn’t think it was. One
of them had what looked
He was really screwed now.
‘This is Bethany . . .’ Amie began.
It might have been two minutes, it could have been forty-five, Andrew wasn’t sure. Either way, Amie ended up with his bank details and Andrew sauntered away wondering if he was a better
person for donating, or if he’d just been blackmailed. It definitely felt like the latter.
It had happened again! Every time.
He continued on, weaving through the back streets of Manchester’s Northern Quarter, hands in his jacket pockets, careful not to make eye contact with anyone.
When the sun was out, or even when it was a little warm, the area would be buzzing, day or night. Against the frozen backdrop of a Monday afternoon, the array of small galleries, pubs and cafes
were looking a little sorry for themselves. Instead of interested tourists and hungry shoppers dropping in to see what was going on, there were a small number of locals, collars up, heads down,
rushing for home, the office, or anywhere that was warm. Hearts appeared on an array of posters advertising Valentine’s events, with so much red, pink and purple that it looked like all
marketing budgets had been invested in a succession of cackling hen parties.
He quickened his pace as he reached Oldham Street, waiting for a bendy bus to creep around the corner, and then heading for Ancoats. Andrew checked the address he’d noted on his phone and
then crossed the main road.
The Central Manchester Food Bank was either a triumph of human generosity, or an indictment of twenty-first century society. Perhaps it was both. Andrew skirted around the back of the huge
church until he reached the sorry-looking hall at the rear. Slates were missing from the roof, with a skip overflowing with bricks and rotting wood plonked next to the front door.
He smiled at the group of three men standing outside who were sharing a flask and then went inside. The peeling paintwork, high ceilings and wide wooden floor of what looked like an ancient
school gym offered little respite against the cold and when Andrew removed his hat he instantly wished he’d left it on. A table was set up at one end of the hall with a large vat of something
steaming, next to rows of bowls and spoons; at the other, tins of various foods were stacked high, alongside a dozen loaves of bread. Packed paper bags were piled on a nearby table, each full of a
day’s-worth of food for a family.
Andrew was met by a smiling woman somewhere in her twenties, with a neat bob of hair and a thick woollen jumper. ‘Can I help?’ she asked.
‘I was wondering if you could help me find someone named Joe?’
She shook her head blankly. ‘I’m not great with names at the best of times. We’ve got the soup kitchen here but we’re also running the food bank for local families. Is he
. . . ?’
‘He’s homeless – that’s all I know.’
She shook her head. ‘If you’re Press, then I’ve got a number for someone you can call—’
‘I’m not. It’s, er, probably worse.’
Andrew showed his identification but, as he suspected, it didn’t get him far. This was a place for privacy, where people felt embarrassed to ask for help, it wasn’t for someone like
him to poke around.
Out front, the trio of men were shuffling their way in the vague direction of the city centre, still sipping from the flask. Andrew hurried after them, the cold air tightening his chest and
reminding him how unfit he was. He eventually caught up with them close to the main road. Cars, buses and lorries zipped past, creating a cacophony of noise as Andrew tried to assure them he
wasn’t a nutter – which was particularly hard to do considering he was out of breath, half-frozen, and could barely be heard. He certainly had that nutter look about him.
The trio were each wearing shabby jeans, big boots and heavy overcoats, with a lingering smell of stale alcohol that wasn’t coming from Andrew. At least he didn’t think it was. One
of them had what looked
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